


Reflected light upon your face

by Dienda



Category: True Detective
Genre: Again, Christmas Challenge, Implied Relationships, Magical Realism, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 19:25:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2878883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dienda/pseuds/Dienda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Around nine Marty comes down the stairs with a bundle in his arms and his thick jacket on.</p>
<p>“Put your coat on,” he instructs before disappearing through the back door.</p>
<p>“What?” Rust huffs but follows him outside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reflected light upon your face

December rolls in faster than either of them care to think about; sometimes ―in the middle of the night, with the last traces of a nightmare shattering on the bedroom floor― it feels like it’s only been days since they escaped Carcosa, instead of over six months. This is the first time in almost a decade Rust’s sober enough to really notice Christmas approaching and the ubiquitous decorations and advertisements feel a bit like something out of a bad trip.

One evening, he gets out of the shower to find Marty and the truck gone; he wonders what the hell’s that about ―Marty never wants to drive anything other than his goddamned Cadillac― and gets the answer one hour later when his partner throws the front door open and, instead of coming inside, just pokes his head in.

“Hey, Rust, give me a hand.” And he’s gone again.

There’s a Christmas tree in the truck bed, netted and sad like a trussed up hostage.

“What the fuck is this?”

“A new couch. What the fuck do you think it is?” Marty jumps up to push the thing out. “C’mon, help me get it in.”

They manage to get it in and up with only the minimum amount of bitching, leaving a trail of pine needles all over the living room. The smell reminds Rust of walking through the forest up in Alaska, nothing but the cold and the song of the birds to keep him company. The bags of brand new string lights and baubles betray the fact that this isn’t something Marty does every year. Rust thinks of commenting about it but ultimately decides he’s not that much of an asshole.

He doesn’t help decorating the tree but he gets the lights out of the boxes for Marty and sits watching TV while the other man works on his Christmas spirit. The tree ends up with too many lights and too much tinsel.

“What do you think?” asks Marty with an open look of pride.

“Not bad for a mutilated pine.”

“Asshole,” he says, but he’s smiling. “You ain’t gonna give me a lecture about bullshit holidays and consumerism?”

“I gave you lectures on bullshit holidays and consumerism for seven years straight and you never listened. Why bother now?”

“Smart man.” Marty flops down on the couch next to him, profile changing colors with the lazy strobe of the twinkling LEDs.

 

A couple of days later Marty comes back with another set of lights and drags Rust outside to decorate the front of the house. They hang the strings along the edge of the roof and around the windows, and Rust stands on the sidewalk and declares the arrangement _very fucking festive_.

When they’re done he gets a beer and settles on a lawn chair in the backyard. He can hear Marty banging about in the garage, putting the stepladder away. He lets the sound wash over him as he sips his beer and looks up at the night sky; it’s not pitch dark yet but a few stars are already twinkling like Marty’s Christmas LEDs.

A couple of minutes later his partner appears through the back door and comes to stand behind Rust’s chair.

“You waiting for your ‘possum buddy?” he asks, a smile in his voice. The critter first appeared at the edge of the garden a few weeks ago and since then Rust’s been trying to lure her closer with cheese and slices of fruit.

“She hasn’t showed up in a couple of days,” Rust says throwing a cursory glance at the backyard before looking back up.

Marty follows his line of sight. “You angling to make a wish then?”

“Only kids and morons wish upon stars, Marty.”

Wide, warm hands fall on his shoulders. “Hey, makes no difference who you are, anything your heart desires will come to you.”

There’s a long pause. “Did you seriously just quote fucking Pinocchio at me?”

“That what it is? Mhmm.”

“Yeah, I’m not surprised you didn’t pay much attention to that particular tale.” Without turning, he holds up the bottle and Marty takes it. Rust leans back in the chair until his head is pressed against Marty’s middle.

“That’s the one thing I miss about Alaska, man. ‘Bout this time of year, sometimes the whole sky just lights up, lime and pink, like a damned giant canvas.”

“Now, that sounds like something.” A hand runs through Rust’s hair. Neither of them mentions even the possibility of him moving back to Alaska now or in the distant future.

A night bird calls, shrill and distant; Marty lets out a long sigh and Rust moves with it.

“Come on Jiminy, it’s getting real cold, let’s go to bed.”

 

 

More Christmas ornaments appear seemingly out of nowhere; a ceramic Nativity set on the side table. Two felt stockings with twin snowmen over Marty’s fake fireplace. A giant wreath on the front door.

Marty starts printing fancy dinner recipes off the internet; sits at the kitchen table studying them so hard you’d think they’re cases he can’t crack, the culprit hiding in the steps for preparing the perfect glazed ham. He asks for Rust’s opinion from time to time, listing ingredients and naming dishes like they’re horses he wants to bet on.

“I can eat whatever, man.” Rust shrugs. “Pick the one less likely to end in a kitchen fire.”

They drive out to the Piggly Wiggly with Marty’s printouts in hand and buy herbs and fruitcake, and even goddamned candles.

 

On Christmas Eve they run last-minute errands ―the girls have promised to stop by in the morning and Marty wants to fix a proper breakfast for them. Marty makes sure everything’s ready for dinner; he’s settled for rib roast with cream spinach and a pasta dish.

Around nine he comes down the stairs with a bundle in his arms and his thick jacket on.

“Put your coat on,” he instructs before disappearing through the back door.

“What?” Rust huffs but follows him outside.

The bundle turns out to be a couple of blankets, Marty extends the thicker one on the grass and sits down on it.

“Holy shit, are we sixteen?”

“Rust, it’s Christmas Eve. Shut the fuck up and stargaze with me for ten fucking minutes, alright?”

He gives Marty an unimpressed look but lies down; he knows what Marty’s trying to do ―in his own awkward, hopelessly obvious way― but he’s now humble enough to welcome it, to feel grateful.

They lie close together, shoulder to shoulder; Rust throws the second blanket over their legs and pulls it up to their chests. He fishes a cigarette out of his shirt pocket. “Now what?”

“Now tell me about this,” Marty says, waving a hand at the sky.

To be frank, Rust has never really paid any attention to the Louisiana stars. All his time out here he’d been either depressed or obsessed, too fucked up to bother gazing at the sky. He barely knows enough to pick Perseus out of the pinpricks littering the velvety dark, so he points it to his partner and goes on about gods and heroes, and a monster so terrible its sight turned men into stone.

When his words run out, he lights another smoke and thinks maybe it’s time he learned these constellations. Marty’s soft snoring breaks the silence a couple of minutes later; Rust turns his head to look at him, peaceful and familiar, and feels his own eyelids closing, heavy under the weight of Marty’s sleep.

 

Rust opens his eyes and his stomach drops to the ground. The sky above is illuminated in ribbons of green, bright and weightless like ink in water. He’s seen it enough times to recognize the Aurora borealis; he tilts his head and follows a wave of dusty pink until it disappears behind the roof of the house. He’s hit with the hollow ache of disappointment; the last vision he had was in the heart of Carcosa; a tempestuous, spiraling void. The ominous twin of this aurora. An idiotic, irrational part of him had hoped it’d be the last, like getting out of the dark could somehow fix his brain. Now, in the garden, he presses his eyes shut and counts to ten, to twenty, thirty, before opening them again.

The northern lights fly and cut across his southern sky. The shit he sees doesn’t usually last this long but he has the absolute certainty that he’s awake. He’s about to get up and flee inside the house when a hand closes on his wrist under the blanket.

“Rust.” It’s a gasp. Marty’s eyes are wide and tinted green with the reflected glow.

“It’s not real, Marty,” Rust says urgently, without stopping to think that this makes no sense. “It’s just my head―”

“Unless acid flashbacks are an STD now I’d say it’s very fucking real.” Marty doesn’t seem scared, just awed.

“This is― How the fuck is this happening, Marty?” He grabs at the other man’s hand, crushes their fingers together. He feels like this is his fault somehow, he made this happen.

“Holy shit, Rust, I don’t know. Who the fuck cares. Look at that.”

Rust wants to argue, to pick at this like a scab but Marty is smiling enraptured at the aurora, taking it in stride, face colored jade and indigo with the light from three thousand miles away. It’s even more beautiful than Rust remembered. They stare at it in silence, the green stretching lazily over their heads, like a river, like a path.

“Well,” Marty says nudging his shoulder. “Tell me about this.”


End file.
